


It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

by CeleryThesis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: American Politics, British Politics, F/M, Wizarding Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-02 05:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13311228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleryThesis/pseuds/CeleryThesis
Summary: Disturbed by the politics of 2017 both in the wizarding and Muggle worlds, best friends Granger and Snape take extreme measures to make improvements.





	1. Chapter One: August 2017

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWitch/gifts).



> I was both thrilled and intimidated when I drew MyWitch’s name for the Live Journal SSHG_Giftfest this year. I admire her work so much, and was afraid I would not be able to write a story from her prompts that would do justice to her talent. (Her prompts were amazing, but the way. I am still obsessed with one of them I didn’t choose, though I am not sure I am the right one for the job.)
> 
> My laptop died during the process of writing this story, and I ended up writing the last two chapter longhand, and then transcribing them a few minutes here or there when I had access to a machine. As a result, I had to rush to complete it by the deadline, and I did not give my fantastic beta Grooot very much time to read and edit. Despite this, she did a wonderful job and gave me many ideas to think about. I didn’t not have time to incorporate them into the story before the deadline, so I have rewritten some of this with her suggestions in mind. The mistakes that inevitably exist are all mine.
> 
> This piece is overtly political and a reaction to feelings of helplessness during the current climate, especially in the United States, but in many other parts of the world as well. If you think things are going swimmingly, this is probably not the story for you. I also received feedback that it was difficult to read for some because of the political situation we are in, so please take this as a warning.

**Chapter One**

**August 2017**

 

Summer was winding down too fast. It seemed like only a week or maybe two ago that they had left school for the long break. September first was only a week away, and Hermione wished she could stall it. She would probably be ready for the fifteenth; wouldn’t that be more civilized?

She rented a flat each summer in a different university town. She enjoyed the change in scenery and had no pull to own something herself. She always spent a week in Brisbane as soon as she was off work. Her parents had no idea who she was, and she didn’t reveal her presence anyway. They had gone into nursing care two years before, and the staff was aware she was their daughter and understood their special kind of dementia. It was easy to explain and not even hint at magic. The brain was reliable in its propensity for oddness.

She spent the bulk of the rest of the summer preparing for her new class. It was the same every summer; she would modify the curriculum each year and then spend her off-time getting ready. She was Professor of History. Binns had crossed over during the events of the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione had self-studied for her NEWTs and then completed a three-year course at wizarding university with the assurance of the new Headmistress McGonagall that the job was waiting for her. A series of adjuncts had filled in during the interim period.

She had started her career using the same curriculum her ghostly predecessor had used for centuries, but it became clear quickly that she needed to update and expand the program.

She broke down the subject into age appropriate blocks and specialties, starting with a vast overview for first-years and ending with a special course for the seventh year that she redesigned annually. She had reached out to the new Muggle Studies Professor to integrate British Muggle history into the advanced curriculum, but she had been met with baffled resistance. Why teach about the Battle of Hastings when one could focus on the fascinating world of Muggle kitchen appliances?

That was fine. She designed her own course exactly the way she wanted. She had done a year on World War II that had left the seventh years gasping at every revelation. She had done a year about the Cold War, one on the British system of justice, and a course on the history of the British monarchy. (That one had left them breathless as well.)

Because of the present state of affairs, she decided she had to tackle current British history that year. She titled the course “Brexit and Beyond.” If the North Korean dictator and American president kept having a pissing contest, she realised her students should know something of nuclear technology as well. No spell would protect them from it.

She spent the summer in Cambridge in a student flat, half of the top floor of a crumbling old house near the library. She charmed her way into lending privileges and spent most days there in the stacks and at the banks of computers, reading everything she could find and filling up journals with course notes. She became acquainted with the history faculty, spending most of her efforts with the modernists, who were the frustrated political scientists.

Last term, she had followed the British election religiously. She had always been aware of Muggle politics and had kept up, but she poured herself into this one. She had a mobile phone she had to march miles up the hill to use and a Twitter account that she scrolled through until her hands were practically frozen to the screen. She read every poll and every news account and editorial left, right, and center. She apparated every Saturday night during the weeks-long campaign to pubs around the country to watch the political shows. She charmed residential records so she could vote in a close district. She voted Labour because though she found Jeremy Corbin more than a bit problematic, but the other choice was untenable.

She had dragged her best friend with her on election night to watch the returns. He had grumbled and only agreed to go if they found a pub in Manchester where, “At least they have the right football.”

She thought of her friend, Professor Snape, as her work husband though she would never mention that term to him as she was sure it would horrify him. They had been perhaps unlikely friends. (Not in her mind, but maybe on parchment.) He hadn’t had much to do with her that first year she taught. But when it turned out they had similar tastes in everything from whiskey to literature, resistance on his part had been futile. They even shared opinions of every member of the faculty, including Professor Longbottom, whom both admired personally but found an appalling push-over when attempting shape young minds.

During her first years, she had endured an appalling string of relationships that often left her drinking heavily at the _Three Broomsticks_ with some of her fellow faculty members. She was still trying to hang on to Ronald Weasley that first year, then it was a Muggle librarian called Cliff that no one ever took seriously, then an older Charms professor, who taught at Beaux Batons. She considered marrying him until she found out he wanted ten children. Her final disaster had been a legal advisor to the Wizengamot. She had discovered in the middle of dinner out one night his repellent views on the rights of magical creatures and had left him there before the waiter had served the main course.

She had given up hope after that. She had more fun spending weekends with her colleagues Severus, Filius, Minerva, Sinestra, and Neville, before he and Hannah started their family. She and Severus could drink and debate for hours without tiring. Because they were often on the same side of an issue, they would tackle the minutia, or go at it from their different perspectives: Mancuian bloke vs. semi-poshy London girl, or one would switch sides as a rhetorical exercise.

Neither had the responsibility of head of house; Neville had taken over Gryffindor, and the Headmistress’s successor at Transfiguration had been hired in part because she was a Slytherin. That gave them ample weekend time to their various hobbies, the favourites being drinking and discussion.

He never mentioned any romantic attachments, and she suspected celibacy for unknown reasons. He would become so passionate during debates. He would tell bawdy jokes and laugh at Minerva’s if he’d had enough to drink.

Ten years before they had been the last patrons at the _Broomsticks_ and had walked back to the castle together. They kept bumping against each other as they walked and talked. He had touched her arm several times for emphasis throughout the evening. Her quarters were first, and he had walked down the corridor with her despite the dungeon being the other way. She thought she had read the signals correctly. She took his hand when they reached her door and leaned in. She didn’t plan to kiss him, merely signal that she was willing if he wanted to. He backed away suddenly, almost into the wall behind them.

“Goodnight, Professor Granger,” he had said as he fled.

“Goodnight Professor,” she sighed.

He had never acted as if anything abnormal had happened. They sat together at breakfast the next morning as they always did. The next weekend, they were across from each other at their usual table at the _Broomsticks_ as their other friends came and went. Neither ever mentioned it again.

But he lived in her fantasies. She had brief affairs occasionally during the summer in whichever university town she was staying. She refused anything serious, and she didn’t go out of her way for the encounters she did have, but she’d had about seven short-term lovers over the years. None of them lived in her head the way he did.

There were times when that part of herself was shut down, and she didn’t think about it, but then it would come roaring back, usually after a particularly raucous discussion. He had become so attractive to her as he grew older. He had lost the isolated air he carried throughout her school career. He wasn’t quite so buttoned up and black although he did tend to dress formally but plainer than his fellow male faculty members. On Saturday nights, he typically wore his starched white button-down, opened at the neck with a black waistcoat that he buttoned to mid-chest, tailored black wool trousers, and a simple, black robe that he would hang in the corner while they were in the tavern.

His hair was shinier and not greasy any more. He wore it down usually although sometimes if he had brewing all afternoon, the top half was pulled back behind his head and secured with a thin black velvet ribbon. He smelled of herbs and soap, and his hands and nails were immaculately clean. Sometimes, he would lean over the table, and she would casually inhale his scent.

Those were the times, when he had spent the evening trying to score point after point in the debate when he forgot himself and leaned in to her that she would hardly make it inside her quarters before shucking her robes and thrusting her hand in her knickers. She imagined he was there, too, and they were undressing each other, using mostly their hands but their wands, too, on their buttons and boots. He would be rock hard for her, and sometimes he would take her against the wall before they even made it to the bedroom. Mostly, though, she would push him back on the bed and straddle him and sink down on him and ride. In reality, she had a rubber phallus she called Severus inside her and her fingers rubbing in the same rhythm, and she would imagine him losing control and coming inside her, which made her come, too. Then he would bring her close and she would fall asleep on his chest.

She would wake up with one leg outside the bedclothes as if it were draped around his hip. She would be acutely alone for a few moments and then fall back asleep, and then awaken over the temporary melancholy. She would see him at breakfast, after all.

Her thoughts were much less explicit as they sat in a corner table with the best view of the telly at the _Barney Toad_ on election night. Hermione was enjoying this bit of Muggledom and the chance to scroll endlessly at her Twitter without freezing her fingers off.

From the beginning of the night, there were whispers from all corners of her feed that the polling had been off, that the Tories were not going to have the night they had hoped. It was too much to dream of at seven, that Mrs. May and her ilk had so badly misread the electorate. They had sandwiches and chips, and at first, Professor Snape hardly glanced at the telly, sticking with their decidedly un-Hogwarts fare for the first time in a while and the football pages he was glued to.

Then the Prime Minister’s own results came in. She won of course, but she had to share the stage with some kind of red monster with an enormous round head and bulging eyes; he looked like a distant cousin of the Cookie Monster, but nowhere near as charming. But that was not all, as it panned across, the camera revealed the true star of the night. Hermione shoved Snape’s arm to get his attention.

“What is that?”

“Lord Buckethead, and a very doable Halloween look for you, I think.”

“Did he win?”

“No, Snape, pay attention. This is our Theresa’s ward.”

“Pity.”

That was then end of the football sheets, though. She had made a grid listing all the wards, and she filled in the totals as they came in.

“What is the Tweet’s take?” he asked, peering at her phone.

“It will be close.”

By the end of the night when it was clear that the Prime Minister was a loser, Mr. Corbin was a winner despite not winning, and some truly frightening folks in Northern Ireland were going to have more power than they ever should, they settled their tab and staggered back to the alley to apparate back to school grounds.

The end of the year was upon them quickly, and they had left for the summer break before the Prime Minister could form a government. Hermione settled into life at the Cambridge library. She ran in the mornings as she did every summer; it always fell by the wayside despite good intentions once it became truly cold by November in Scotland. She became acquainted with the local shops and enjoyed the independence of deciding what she would eat that day rather than just showing up for meals. She thoroughly enjoyed her life between school years.

She played the role of visiting scholar well enough and soon established a peer group at the taverns. She learned more during these evenings than days of scouring the newspapers, academic journals, and the Internet at the library.

The tavern was large and open in the back with tables for warm summer evenings and space for children to play. Patrons could enjoy their dinners, pints, and robust political discussions while their sons and daughters tumbled over the grounds.

It was hard to find many supporters of Brexit or the Prime Minister _or_ the American president among the assembled, but there was always someone there willing to play devil’s advocate, or be what the Internet labeled a _concern troll,_ or both.

“You can’t possibly be justifying the United States pulling out of the Paris Accord,” a young woman named Penelope said in an incredulous tone.

“I am not justifying it, I am explaining why it plays well with President Trump’s base,” Louis, an American visiting scholar replied, a bit smugly, in Hermione’s opinion. The ensuing groan from all assembled suggested she was not alone.

“Drink your pint, Louis,” Sam, a very attractive professor of economics called from across the table. She had her eye on him for summer companion. He was single and presumably straight although she wasn’t sure about that. She had been reserved at the gatherings, afraid of revealing how shallow her knowledge of current events was. She was much more comfortable when the debate drifted to the theoretical sides of questions.

She looked across the table at Sam and smiled at him before she took a drink. He caught her eye and winked. She was playing a longer game and didn’t really want to take someone home that night, so she stored it away and focused on the discussion.

She left alone about an hour later and scooped up her Muggle post before climbing the stairs to the outside entrance to her little flat. There was a notice from her electricity provider and a brightly-coloured postcard inside. Severus was on holiday for the summer in Central America studying…something to do with plants of the rainforest. There was a tropical bird on the card.

 

Granger,

I am devising a plan to import rum from this place and may need a runner. This shouldn’t be a problem? Work it out on your end and send me details ASAP.

Don’t stay inside too much; it’s bad for the complexion.

 

SS.

 

She felt her smile take over her face before she affixed the postcard to her fridge with a sticking charm and added magnets to her mental shopping list.

The debates raged on that summer, and she received four more postcards from Guatemala, Nicaragua, and finally Cancun. She never pursued anything with Sam; the moment never presented itself, but she returned to school able to run a solid ten kilometers, and burdened with a dozen binders of notes and copied articles for her seventh-year class.

The move home was easy; not even Filius could shrink items as well as she could. She had left her classroom ready for the first day as she always did. She didn’t understand why no one else did this. They all scurried around in denial on August thirty-first as if the next day would not arrive.

She wandered down to the dungeon after breakfast; he had arrived late the night before and looked as if he could use some help in his classroom, only to find him with his feet on his desk, sipping a lime daiquiri on the rocks.

“It’s nine A.M.!”

“Your point?”

“Vacation is over, Snape!”

“Not until at least six tonight.”

“This is a mess!” She swept her hands around to indicate his classroom where he had a year’s worth of supplies laid out on the student tables.

“Yes, well, that’s what the hours of six to ten are for.”

“P.M. to A.M.?”

He looked at her as if she were rather simple. “Obviously.” He did move from the desk and mulled some lime wedges with some very fine sugar. He poured in the rum and then some ice cubes he had in a little metal bowl. He shook the cocktail rather expertly and handed her a glass. “Add water if it’s a bit much.”

It was, and she did. The result was the most delicious concoction she had tasted all summer. “This is…”

“Yes.”

“Did you manage to smuggle…”

“Enough for a few months.” He clinked his glass to hers. “What do you hear about the Ministry?”

“Nothing. I was immersed in Muggle politics all summer. What do you hear?”

“Rumblings.”

“Not good ones.”

“Are they ever?”

“Shacklebolt is on the way out?” Her heart sank. It was inevitable—no Minister had served as long as he had in hundreds of years. He had done a masterful job at holding the coalitions together. He had ruled with wisdom and restraint. He had established a set of principles regarding how society should be. How magical creatures should be treated. How the relationships with foreign countries should be conducted. When to use strength. When to use diplomacy. How magical folks should treat each other. How the Wizengamot should conduct, maintain, and carry out justice.

It hadn’t always worked out. There were still problems; there would always be problems, but he had ruled wisely and had always set an example to be followed.

“Yes. And soon.”

“Who…who is likely to succeed him?” She braced herself.

“It seems a four-person race at the moment. Eleanor Whitley, Derrick Bondsman, Carlos Reynolds…and Sidney Sloot.”

She laughed. “Among those choices? Whitley, obviously. It’s not going to be Sloot!” The idea was absurd. She suspected he was taking the piss anyway. She took a long swig of her drink and looked at him. He wasn’t smiling.

“You don’t think?”

Sloot had been the number one Shacklebolt critic for years. He had a column in the _Prophet,_ and he railed against the Minister three or four days a week, sometimes contradicting himself to make an argument against Shacklebolt. He appealed to factions of society that felt they had lost something when the government extended more rights to all. He used coded language, so while he couldn’t be outwardly accused of blood prejudice, it was right there under the surface. He opposed the reformed marriage laws that allowed for divorce in certain cases and granted marriage rights for homosexual witches and wizards.

Hermione and her peers at Hogwarts had never taken him seriously. “Sloot? Severus? How?”

“The lot he appeals to has the power; always had. Kingsley hung in there because of the war and because no one dared oppose him and look like a Dark sympathizer, but you can’t believe that those sentiments went away?

“No, not completely, but surely they are a minority…”

“Anyone who gives two figs about politics these days are a minority.  And that’s how he will slide in.”

“I just…” she sat down and took a gulp of her breakfast daiquiri. Severus always had good instincts about these things. “Wow.”

“How was the summer seminar?” he said lightly.

“Not as exciting as yours.”

“Still exciting though?”

“Not really. The Muggles are just as fucked as we are.”

He produced an aluminium pitcher from behind his desk and refilled both glasses.


	2. Chapter Two: September 2017

**Chapter Two**

**September 2017**

Her thirty-eighth birthday passed with as little fanfare as she could manage. She received a card from Arthur and Molly, signed by the whole horde, a beautiful red scarf from Harry and Draco, obviously selected by the latter, and Snape paid for her drinks the Saturday before without acknowledging why. It was close to perfect.

The next weekend, she was invited to a gathering at the Burrow for Ron and his wife Susan. There was a fourth little Bones-Weasley on the way after they had declared themselves finished with three and had cleaned the house of all baby items. The blessed news had arrived early in the summer, and Hermione had been shopping ever since. While she had never had any desire to be a mother, baby things were her weakness. So tiny and delicate and…full of promise and potential. It hit every note of her values. Her friends had done well to give her plenty opportunities for her favourite kind of shopping trip.

She wrapped her months of purchases in an elegant white package with yellow accents and travelled via floo to Harry and Draco’s for pre-party mimosas. Draco was already in the modern but comfortable sitting room when she arrived. He took her gift and handed her a cocktail. He placed her package near a similarly large and impressive one in white and mint green. She doubted his feelings ran quite as deeply as hers; Draco just loved to shop.

“Potter’s still dressing,” he said, giving her the once over. He was wearing wool trousers, charcoal, but with a subtle pattern of green threaded squares that made the garment up to the moment stylish. His pale green oxford button down was open at the neck and topped with a thick wool jacket two shades lighter than the trousers. It looked to be a transfigured traveling cloak that would look perfect in both the wizarding and Muggle streets of London.

“Fix me,” she allowed.

With a flick of his wand, she felt her jumper cinch into her body and the hemline of her skirt raise two inches. She grew taller with higher heeled boots, and her hair lifted, swirled around her head for a moment and landed back on her shoulders. Her scarf flew from where it was resting at the shoulders of her robe, hanging on a smart coat tree in the corner to tied stylishly so it draped across her jumper. She looked in the full-length mirror in the entry way and was impressed with the results.

“I don’t know why I can never see this at home.”

“You are good at many things, Granger,” he said. “Hold on a moment.” He walked with a purpose into the back of the flat and returned with a wide, black belt. He expanded it slightly to her chagrin and buckled it around her middle. The effect was instant; she looked almost as elegant as he did.

“Thank you.”

He sniffed in reply. “You couldn’t drag our friend to this?”

“Didn’t even ask. Can you imagine?”

“It would be the highlight of the week.”

Draco and Harry occasionally asked Hermione and Snape over together or the four met out for dinner and drinks. Any match-making efforts had been abandoned years ago, and they had settled into a group consisting of a couple and two extra friends.

“This is fantastic,” she said, sipping her drink.

“Yes, Mother brought us a case of elf-crafted from Paris last month,” he indicated a bottle of champagne on the table.

Mrs. Malfoy had exquisite tastes in everything from Hermione’s experience. She had accepted her son-in-law with unfailing graciousness and not a little love. It had won over Hermione immediately. Lucius had died very soon after the war, and Narcissa had become something of an icon in society. She looked twenty years younger than she was, and her active social life was a fixture in the _Prophet_. Snape was inordinately fond of her, which gave Hermione twinges of jealousy that she hated.

Harry brushed into the room with untucked shirt, mostly wet hair, and stockinged feet. “’Mione!” he called out with great affection and enveloped her into an embrace. “That’s the scarf Malfoy found—it looks beautiful on you.”

“Thank you.” She blushed.

Draco set to work immediately, tucking in the shirt tails, taking the wrinkles out of the trousers, drying and styling the mop on his head so it was deliberately floppy in the most attractive way, and finally, buffing both the glasses and shoes until they shone. He finished with a peck on the mouth, which Harry returned slightly more enthusiastically than was appropriate in front of guests. “Thank you,” he murmured. It made Hermione speculate about what they had been doing before she arrived that morning, which again made the jealousy flare up.

Nothing about Draco’s manner had changed dramatically since they were in school. She interpreted it differently now that they were not sworn enemies. He was part of her extended family. He still carried himself with a slightly menacing air, but she felt as if she understood him now.

Harry had fallen for him hopelessly and irrevocably that first year after the war when they were in court constantly and Lucius was dying. They had taken each other in and become the other’s life. It had been shocking and scandalous, but having witnessed it as it happened, it made sense to Hermione and to Ron as well, once he got over feeling protective of his sister.

Harry had risen through the ranks of the Office of Auror, and now led it. He was a Shacklebolt protégé, but Harry was quiet in political matters and stayed out of the press as much as possible given his job and marriage.

“Come sit. We still have two-thirds of a bottle and the party won’t really be swinging for another hour,” Draco directed them to the high table in the kitchen. There was a lovely formal dining room, but they usually sat here on high stools when it was just the three or four of them.

“Cheers,” Harry said and clinked his glass with the other two. Hers was practically gone and Draco refilled it without asking. Hermione’s eyes lit on the copy of that morning’s _Prophet_ with a highly unflattering photo of Eleanor Whitley on the cover under a headline that read “Fraud in the Office of Finances?” Whitley had been the head of that department for Shacklebolt’s whole tenure. He had formally announced his impending resignation two weeks before, and the upcoming election had taken over the newspaper since.

Hermione made a disgusted noise and folded the paper so she didn’t have to look at it.

“Oh, surely you’re not supporting that old prune,” Draco said with disgust.

“Whitley?” Hermione said. “Of course I am, who else would I…”

“Perhaps politics is not the best topic…”

“Harry!” she said sharply. “Draco, what do you mean?”

“Whitley. She should be in Azkaban; not potential Minister. Have you seen the financial reports since Shacklebolt took over?”

“There was a war! Of course the government had to spend money in the aftermath. School was practically destroyed, and Whitley led the effort to fund that.”

Hermione had never been a fan of the woman because Hermione favoured a more aggressive financial policy than the administration did. The war had exposed deep pockets of poverty in Wizarding society that had been hidden for generations. Whitley had allowed a proposal for a flat tax through. It had raised taxes across the board, not just for wealthy families like the Malfoys, but for everyone. But if you looked at these taxes, the people on the bottom and the middle were carrying a heavier burden. Perversely, this should have satisfied the old families, but they couldn’t look past their own increases.

“It’s not the government’s money, Granger; it never was. They are lucky that we cast our lot with them anyway,” Draco sneered as if she were fundamentally stupid.

“So we have no responsibly for maintaining a certain standard of life for all? Every witch for herself, yeah?” she retorted.

“Please could we not,” Harry said with a bit of distress in his tone.

“You don’t agree with him?” she asked Harry incredulously.

“Not really.”

“You adore Kingsley!” she said, a bit of horror creeping in.

“I’ll not deny it. Whitley is no Kingsley.”

“Not Sloot. Please, Harry, not Sloot.”

“I could never support him,” Harry said in a depressed tone.

“He says what most of us are thinking,” Draco said, relishing her horror.

“He does NOT!”

“Granger, not everyone lives at _the academy._ ”

“Malfoy,” Harry said softly. _Back off, Love._

“Yes, dear.”

“Don’t placate me, you wankers. Tell me who in their right minds would support Sloot!”

“Enough for him to become Minister,” Draco said in exactly the tone that had motivated her to punch him their third year.

“I won’t believe it,” she said, horrified. “Not enough of our people are that misguided.”

Harry and Draco both snorted.

“’Mione, I beg of you, please let’s talk of something else.”

“Ugh, FINE. How is work?”

“Slow,” Harry said.

“Work?” Draco said. Balance was restored.

“How is school? We haven’t seen Professor Snape since he returned from Central America. How was that?” Harry asked.

“It’s fine. He’s fine. We are supposed to get drinks tonight with Filius and Minerva and whomever else. You are welcome to join…”

“We have the Fauna Gala,” Draco said. “Dreadful, but mother would never forgive us if we skipped.”

“Next weekend, though, why don’t the two of you come here?” Harry said.

“That sounds great; both of us have early patrol, is eight too late?”

“No,” Draco replied as if it were a ridiculous question.

They finished their drinks and flooed into the big sitting room of the Burrow. There was already lots of activity. Draco led the way to the drink table; they stopped on the way to drop off the gifts at the designated spot. Draco sniffed at the wine selection and settled on a dry white elf-made recent vintage. He poured three glasses. “Burrow drinking game commences,” they clinked their glasses and dispersed.

Hermione found Ginny immediately. Ginny was six months pregnant with her second child. Her husband Sebastian was chasing their daughter Elaine around the garden. “You look great!” Hermione greeted her. She hadn’t seen her since the previous spring.

“Liar.”

“Am not. You do. How is Seb?”

“Fine. Busy with the impending changeover.” Sebastian worked in the Ministry census office. He had been a Ravenclaw a year above Hermione and was very handsome and very clever. If Hermione had been in school at a normal time, he would have been at the top of her list. She had been very happy for Ginny, though, when they found each other and Ginny was able to get over the break-up with Harry and his almost immediate relationship with Draco.

“Ah, yes,” Hermione said, heeding Harry’s advice to avoid politics.

“What about you, seeing anyone?”

Hermione caught Draco’s eye across the room and took a drink of her wine. He drank and found Harry’s eyes to instruct him, too. Almost immediately, Harry drank again, and Hermione took another sip. Harry was speaking with Molly, and Hermione could hear her. _Such a shame you will never be a father, Harry. Aw, well._

“Not at the moment. I was in Cambridge all summer, it was fantastic, but no such luck for companionship.

“There is a man in Seb’s office. Divorced,” she whispered as if it were a shame. “But I think he was married to a shrew. I could…” Hermione caught Harry’s eye and drank again.

“Oh, that’s alright. I don’t have much time during the school year. I need a refill. Could I get you anything?” Ginny declined, and Hermione met Draco again by the drinks.

“Something new?” he asked.

“No, this was fine. Mixing would probably be a bad idea, especially after the champagne.”

“Love life?” he asked her.

“What else? You haven’t made any Weasleys blush so far?”

“Give me time, Granger. I have only spoken to George. I am hitting Arthur next.”

Hermione poured extra wine in her glass and headed back out. She spent a while with Ronald, who never mentioned the key topics. She loved her old friend; romance had not worked out between them, but he was one of her favourite people in the world. He could always make her laugh. They did not spend as much time together these days because his kids and job helping George run the shop kept him so busy.

“You were at Muggle uni? All summer?”

“I am every summer, Ronald. This was Cambridge, though. Just…beautiful. And fun, lovely people.”

“All for one class?”

“Of course not. Mostly because I want to learn more. I missed out on Muggle history.”

“Okay, ‘Mione,” he said with palpable affection. She had pangs very infrequently. She knew very well it would have been a terrible idea, but every now and then she could imagine herself by his side with a little Granger-Weasley. One. Only one. She kissed his cheek and left to rescue Arthur from Draco. Arthur’s face was as red as his hair; there was no telling, but it had cost her half her glass.

“There’s our girl,” Arthur said with great relief. “Please tell me all about your year.”

“I need to say hello to your wife, Weasley,” Draco said and shuffled off.

Arthur took a long pull from his own glass.

“How are things at the Ministry,” she asked him quietly. He was the one person she could count on here.

“Not good, Hermione. Not good at all. That Sloot is more popular every day. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“What does Percy say?”

“Don’t even ask. I can’t…”

“Oh dear.” Percy had been accepted back into the fold immediately after the war, but it had remained somewhat strained. He had married; he and his wife had two lovely children whom they all doted on, but it had never been the same.

“Oh, it’s not just Percy. I would advise you not to engage in political talk with anyone else here.”

She shook her head. Over the course of the next hour, Arthur’s words were borne out. She didn’t have any in-depth conversations with anyone on the subject, but she kept hearing phrases like “It’s not that I plan to vote for him, but he makes sense,” and “He does say things people are afraid to.” _For bloody good reason!_

Molly had put out a fabulous spread of lunch items and desserts, and the party continued through late afternoon. By the time she was ready to floo back to Hogwarts, between the depressing political talk and the Burrow drinking game—she had overheard Draco discussing the pros and cons of cock rings to a group of Weasley wives over pavlova—she could hardly stand up straight.

She staggered into the floo in Minerva’s office; she was away, thank Merlin. Hermione composed herself before she made it down the Headmistress’s narrow stairs. She nodded at students she passed in the halls. Sober, sober, so very sober. Dinner had just let out from the Great Hall, and she looked for Snape to tell him she would not be able to make it that night. He sometimes skipped Saturday night dinner when they planned to go out, and he was not in the crowd. She breathed deeply and braved the stairs down to the dungeon. When she finally made it to the door to his chambers, she flung her back against the heavy wood and knocked with the heel of her boot. He arrived at the door after about ten knocks, and she almost fell into his sitting room.

“Granger.”

“Oh, there you are. I drank too much to drink.”

“I see that.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. A sober-up perhaps and then back to your chambers?”

“I can’t. They make me sicker. I mean most do. I brew one that…you know…doesn’t. Okay so I will be off.” She slid down the wall next to his door.

“Yes, let’s come on now,” he hoisted her up and walked her down the corridor.

“Your cloak is soft. It smells really nice, Seberus. Sevvvverusty. Severooooski.”

“Thank you.”

“It smells like…peppermint…rain…rosebuds…tea,” she was taking deep sniffs between each declaration.

“Did you have a nice time at the Burrow? It seems as if you did.”

“Oooooooh, no. Not really. The people there…you wouldn’t believe…and Draco, too. DRACO. I mean, what does he have to gain, you know, if they make buggery illegal again.”

“Yes. You would think he would be pro-buggery.”

“RIGHT?”

They had arrived at her quarters.

“Do you think you can handle the wards? I would hate to have to go find Minerva.”

“Of course, Snape. I am not that drunk.”

“If you say so.”

She breathed again; it was ever so helpful, closed her eyes, and managed to unward her door after only three tries. “Viola!” she said with a flourish. She unhooked the wide belt and flung it on the couch as she made her way back to her bedroom. The red scarf came off and landed on the top edge of the open door. She unzipped one boot and then the other. She peeled off her tights, not really caring that he was right behind her. It was just the back of her knickers, after all. She collapsed on the bed, splaying her limbs. _Oh, sweet, soft bed._

“Potion?” he asked.

“Drawer,” she said pointing to the bedside table.

She heard the drawer pulled out and then he sat on the bed and put the phial in her hand. She scooted up on her knees and downed it, putting the empty phial on the table. “Fanks.”

“Sleep well, Granger.”

“You, too.” She was already drifting off.

She woke up feeling sleep-deprived and dehydrated, but otherwise okay, though entirely earlier than she wanted to for a Sunday morning. She was dressed, minus boots and tights, and lying on top of her duvet. She shook her head and tried to remember the evening before. The dungeon…Snape…Snape had never been in her quarters before. She sat up and saw the empty phial on the bedside table. She thought back to taking the potion. He had handed it to her. He had retrieved it from the drawer where it had sat, right next to Severus. She groaned and covered her face with her arm, dragging her body into the shower.

On the one hand, she was an adult woman with needs, she thought. There was no shame in it. Surely he wanked. He must. He wasn’t a monk, and they probably wanked, too. She pictured him in his own shower stroking himself, head pitched back, bracing himself with his other hand, coming with a head to toe shudder. But…he probably did not need to see the means of her self-pleasure. She wondered if he would mention it, almost hoping he would. It would open the door for all sorts of conversations. She knew immediately he wouldn’t. She wouldn’t either. She sighed and rinsed her hair. She was hungry and Sunday morning breakfast was the best of the week.

She dried her hair quickly and put on her weekend at school uniform: comfortable jeans and a black V-neck t-shirt. She wore some whimsical socks with hedgehogs on them and tied on her trainers, grabbing her robe for the Great Hall on her way out the door.

He was already sitting at the table when she slid in beside him.

“Feeling well?” he said and poured her a cup of tea.

“Not terrible.”

“You knocked yourself out—that potion was little more than dreamless sleep.”

“I know; the sober-up makes me sicker.”

“You are most likely reacting to the bella root. It can be made without it.”

“I could also drink less.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Did you go to the _Broomsticks_?”

“Yes, we had one in your honour.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.” She could picture the Headmistress’s reaction to her stumbling around the castle in front of the students.

“I told them you were tired.”

“Thanks.”

“How was it?” he asked.

“Depressing.”

“Not a joyous arrival?”

“The baby? Oh, no, they’re all quite pleased. There is a lot of talk about understanding how such things happen, but everyone seems to be thrilled. No, the chatter. You are right; Sloot will win.”

She served herself eggs and toast, and passed him the tray.

“That lot is voting for him?”

“No one comes out and says it, and Arthur seems rightly horrified, but there does not seem to be a popular alternative.”

“You mentioned Draco last night.”

“Yes, he was obviously trying to wind me up, but he largely agrees with Sloot. Even Harry seemed resigned to it, if not outright supportive.”

“Potter would be an excellent choice.”

“Harry? For what?” she snorted. Snape and Harry no longer held any animosity toward each other, but she had never heard Snape say anything overtly positive about him.

“Minister. Potter is a good leader. Always has been. He’s worked in the Auror’s office for…however long you’ve been here.”

“Seventeen years, eighteen. He was already there the last year I was at university.”

“He has as much experience as Shacklebolt did when he became Minister.”

She turned to look at him. He was eating his meal, seemingly not overly concerned with the subject.

“You don’t think he’s up to it?” Snape paused to drink his tea and glance over at her.

“No, I do. Would his husband be help or hindrance, do you think?”

“A wash, I would guess. He would attract the old family vote, but put-off the folks that would cringe at the thought of a gay Minister.”

She nodded thinking about it. “He would never run. He does not enjoy all the attention—I know you always…”

“Granger, I realise that.”

“Okay. But he wouldn’t.”

“No, I suspect not. It would have to fall to him.”

She refilled her teacup and his and they drank in silence. He spread jam over another piece of toast, cut it, and handed it to her.

“Thanks.”

“So how do we cause it to fall?” he said.

 

 


	3. Chapter Three: November 2017

**Chapter Three**

**November 2017**

Sloot took office the first of the month. It was worse than any of them had predicted. He suspended all laws that had been passed during the Shacklebolt administration. They were supposed to go before a committee for review, but he filled the group with his own lackeys.

He was requiring employees of the Ministry to take loyalty oaths; Arthur Weasley had resigned after a forty-year career. There were glowing articles in the _Prophet_ about the new era, but all of Snape’s contacts in the Ministry were nervous.

And he and Granger had formed a two-person nameless order with a mission to oust him. It was every bit as ridiculous as it sounded, but it gave them a sense of purpose. She kept a binder of notes, jotting down every idea, however implausible.

They had fallen into this affinity for each other early in her tenure. He hadn’t been looking for a best friend, but somehow, he had acquired one. His work wife, he sometimes thought of her, though he would never utter the phrase aloud. His hobby wife, too. He lived for the evenings at the pub drinking and debating with her.

If he were a different man, he would attempt to make her his actual wife, but he couldn’t. He had ruined that part of his life at the end of the war. His last best friend, his last work wife, his last lover he had witnessed being murdered in the Malfoy estate. Charity had pleaded with him for her life. She had died thinking he had betrayed her; he had. The door had firmly shut.

He couldn’t shut off his mind, though, and Granger lived there fully. In his head, he expanded his chambers so they both had room for places to work and for their combined collection of books. He didn’t limit himself to reality; their quarters had a telly where they could watch the Muggle news and football matches. She could use the twitter on her phone and keep in contact with the care centre in Australia where her parents lived.

She was most real in his bed. She had her own side; he was closer to the brighter light as his eyes were older, she was closer to the loo. They didn’t bother with clothes much when they were in their bed chamber. They made love often, in every way imaginable. She teased him in here, calling him old man. _I’ll show you an old man_ , he would growl as he plunged into her. He could play out whole scenarios of every variety in his head. He would come from his own hand, but it would feel almost real, and when he woke up alone, the room had never been so empty.

It was easy to recover, though. She was always at breakfast by his side. She came down to the dungeon Potions classroom often and brought her grading with her and they would scratch out their disgusted comments on the parchment of the predictably sub-par student work. If she didn’t bring her work down for a few days, he would find some excuse to visit her in the history wing where she would invariably be covered in books and parchment trying to solve some curricular issue. Her eyes would light up at his arrival. _Thank Merlin you are here._ Indeed.

The evening she had practically kicked his door down was one of his favourite recent memories. He had seen her tipsy plenty of times before but never full-on pissed. He had practically carried her to her quarters, and she had dragged him in behind her. Propriety had always kept him away, so this was the first glimpse he’d had, and it was exactly as he’d pictured it, and very much like his own. There were books everywhere and an often used desk with stacks of work. There was eclectic art on the wall and a corner with a little liquor collection. The quarters were tidy but used, with a tea-set up near the most comfortable looking chair where she had a stack of novels on a nearby table.

She was flinging articles of clothing off as she walked from the door to her bedroom, so his attention was diverted from the furnishings. When she arrived into the room, she unzipped her boots and peeled them off and then reached under her skirt and pulled off her stockings, letting the back of her knickers exposed. He froze, not able to look away, yet feeling as if he really should. Her knickers were black and cotton, and her arse was spectacular.

He regained his senses and inquired about the potion she was going to take. She directed him to the bedside table and a drawer that had the clearly labeled phial—next to a very large rubber penis. He shut the drawer completely, not before thoughts of her using the item floated through his mind. _Merlin._

She had passed out immediately. He took a moment to roll her to her side in case she was sick. He thought about sitting vigil in the armchair, but it really was not his place. He also wanted to brush her wild curls aside and kiss the side of her face softly; of course he didn’t.

He had left and continued to the pub without her. It had been a bust. He drank one pint and returned to the castle. It wasn’t the same when she wasn’t there. He had spent six weeks in Central America without her in person, but she had been there in his mind with him collecting ingredients during the day, sampling the local food and beverages at night. Spending days at the shore—la playa—as they said, picturing her in a bathing costume and a big, floppy hat, a daquiri in one hand and a book in the other beside him.

She was meeting him in his office after dinner to discuss the current government calamity. They aired grievances in front of the faculty; everyone was of one mind concerning the awfulness of the current government, but they were wary of people hearing that they were actively plotting a coup. 

She arrived at eight with a binder and a bottle of wine. He had already uncorked one and was allowing it to breathe in a carafe by his desk. She laughed when she saw it. There were quite a pair. He poured and handed her a glass. She sipped it and rolled her eyes back into her head.

“Why can’t they serve this in the Great Hall?”

“They would have to roll us out of there. Some have house responsibilities.”

“Poor sods.”

“You have no idea,” he said and she laughed again.

“Poor Snape. You used to look like you had swallowed a porcupine up there at the table.”

“Why were you looking?”

“Because you were fascinating.”

He wasn’t even sure what she meant by that, but the words had spread lovely warmth through his chest.

“Anyway…to the matter at hand,” she said and pulled out a quill. “I have been studying the collapse of governments over the last five hundred years.” That was how long their modified parliamentary system had been in place. “It’s almost always predicated by some manner of economic crisis.”

“Hmmmmm.” Economics was not one of his specialties. She was brilliant and no doubt understood it all; he would have to defer.

“If we could figure out a way to disrupt the market in a significant way. Perhaps cause the price of wool to go off the rails in one way or another.”

“How?”

“Overbreed the sheep…kill all the sheep…” She threw him a horrified look. “Come up with a charm to shear them in their sleep and ruin the wool in some way.”

“Not terribly practical. More accessible commodities?”

“Nothing involving the food supply, that could be dire. The price of gold is so highly regulated, that would be practically impossible to disrupt.”

She was leaning back on his settee with her feet stretched out on the low table in front of it. She was dressed as she typically did on the weekends, Muggle jeans and low-cut jumper. Her curls were piled on her head, but several refused to comply and had sprung loose down the side of her face. She had taken off her trainers, and she had chickens on her socks…roosters. She was wearing cock socks. He took a drink of his wine to hide his chuckle.

“After economic crises, the most common cause of government change was public uprising. We may get there, but not yet.”

“And then of course there was the Dark Lord,” he said, shuffling through the notes she had placed in the binder.

Hermione had sat up to make a note on a parchment but had frozen in place and was looking at him as if she had a thousand thoughts at once.

“Granger!” he said.

“There is that,” she whispered, looking into his eyes.

“There is what? For Merlin’s sake…”

“A Dark Lord. That would surely do it.”

“You cannot be…”

“Think about it. What would Sloot do? He’s decimated the Office of Auror. There’s no Dumbledore; no Order of the Phoenix. The Wizengamot is in shambles. What would he do? Write columns about it? The public would rise up in a day!”

“Yes, that’s all lovely, Granger, but there is not a Dark Lord on the horizon, thank Merlin, so…”

“But we could make one…” she was still staring at him.

“Are you daft?”

“Clearly. But think about it… Moldyarse wasn’t even corporeal when he slithered back in. No offense,” she grinned at him with her little slam of his House.

The levity she and others of her generation and station used when speaking of the Dark Lord did not resonate with him, but although he had debated her in a spirited way on a hundred different topics, he never mentioned it. She had suffered greatly during those years, but she had not been in Riddle’s presence the way he had. She had not been in front of him and had to follow unthinkable orders or look beyond the horrifying acts, meted out right there in front of Snape. He supposed he envied her ability to be so blithe. He suspected he would never reach that point.

“Professor,” she said, starling him out of his thoughts.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Are you listening to me?”

_No._

She sighed and rolled her eyes and began again slowly as if he were a wool-gathering fourth-year. “A legitimately serious threat would be enough. We could stage the beginnings of a Dark uprising…”

“We? Kindly leave me out of this, Miss Granger.”

“Well, I can’t, can I? We are in this together, Snape.”

He sighed and refilled their wine glasses.

“There he is,” she said with such affection, he had to close his eyes briefly to compose himself. “It’s just the beginnings of a thought, and if you can formulate a better plan to topple the government, please share it directly, but it’s the most practical idea I have been able to create. We know what notes to hit; it wouldn’t be a Voldemort clone, that would be too on the nose, but it could be an attack from left or right…” Her thoughts had clearly caught up with her, and she had to stop speaking so she could process them all.

“It would have to be from the right. A leftist threat would play into all his favourite issues. He would be just as inept trying to put it down, but the speeches he would make would no doubt inspire the Faithful Forty.”

The _Quibbler_ had coined that term to describe Sloot’s most dedicated followers; the percentage of the electorate the man himself bragged he could cast an Unforgivable on the street before them and they would still love him.

“It has to be from the right,” he said.

“Yes, good. Where is Sloot vulnerable for an attack from his right flank? Taxes?”

“Perhaps; he will never be able to implement the cuts he promised without decimating entitlements, but that will take too long. No one will protest the initial cuts; the uproar will come when he has to dismantle half the society because it’s no longer funded.”

She nodded. “Immigration? Thanks to the Triwizards, half his base has grandchildren that are half French or half Bulgarian.”

“It’s not about them, it’s the rest of anonymous teeming masses; but I don’t have the sense that people care that much. It was campaign rhetoric.”

“Than what about Hogwarts?” she asked.

“The elitist haven?”

“Precisely—as if the pillock wasn’t Gryffindor Head Boy,” she sneered.

“He was a terrible one.” Sloot had been three years ahead of Snape in school, and Snape had used his mistakes for years as an excuse of what not to do with his Slytherins that had risen up the ranks.

“It’s an area rich with grievances,” Hermione looked him in the eye, and he had to take a drink to stave off his desire to envelop her.

She was right; the school had been under scrutiny from certain segments of the population since Minerva McGonagall had overseen the renovations and opened the doors only four months after the battle. He had still been recovering from his injuries. He had spent the first six weeks in a makeshift field hospital, which Poppy had run as if she were a battle surgeon in one of the Muggle great wars. She had moved him to the rebuilt hospital wing where he had stayed until he was able to stand and speak long enough to conduct classes in mid-October.

Minerva had led them under the credo that _Things Must Change_ , and she had facilitated this decisively without regard to the screaming critics. The Sorting Hat was her top general in this. Half the Slytherins since the war were half-bloods or Muggle born. The idea of blood supremacy had been cast out and was not tolerated.

His house could have withered; he would have expected it to, but the Malfoys had become romantic figures after the war; turning as they had in the end to the side of the just. (The winning side, of course.) Lucius’s death from illness soon after the war and Narcissa’s well publicized journey forward helped. Draco becoming a popular figure in his own right had then accelerated further because of his romance with Potter, which had made him one of the most famous wizards in the country. And he had made it cool to be a Slytherin.

Because of Snape’s inability to begin the year on time, Minerva had found a temporary Head of House, but he was so relieved to be without that responsibility, he urged her to make it permanent, and had never regretted it. He still heard from older Slytherin alumni, most of whom were appalled by the changes, but he never gave them credence.

The school had enjoyed unprecedented support from the Ministry during the Shacklebolt years. Minerva had been an unofficial advisor to him, and Kingsley had avoided interfering with school business. It had been one of Sloot’s chief criticism’s—that Minerva had been allowed to go rogue, that the school had to be brought back into control, that she was churning out brainwashed young people who all viewed the Shacklebolt government as the ideal.

 _As if the alternative was so great._ Minerva had done everything she could to eliminate House bias and had mandated an overhauling of the curriculum making it more rigorous and raising the standards while still striving to educate the whole community, not the elite few as Wizarding academies in other countries typically did. She had many fans and supporters, but she had a growing list of detractors, as well.

“That is the angle, I think,” he said quietly. Hermione was writing furiously on the parchment but looked up at his words.

“You think so?”

“I do. It will bring enough support to be threatening while putting the majority’s defenses up. Sloot won’t know how to react and will stumble fatally. It will be the excuse Minerva’s contacts have been looking for.” The Headmistress had remained close with Kingsley and his nearest allies, and she had reported back to the inner circle at school with increasing grimness after the transition of power.

“So how do we do it?”

“Again… _we_?”

“I see you in a supporting role, Snape, congratulations. I will play the part of the Rising Darkness. You will be my political advisor.”

“Because I have so much experience with dark politics?” he said, slightly affronted before he could neutralize his tone.

“Obviously,” she grinned at him.

“I see. Well, it will not be tonight,” he started to tidy his parchment, a small stack compared to hers. She started meticulously filing her notes in her massive binder.

“I’m good for another two hours or so; just pop another bottle, but I do have the advantage of youth,” she said, not looking at him, and obviously trying hard not to laugh.

“Yes, my elderly brain is finished for tonight,” he said back at her flatly, which caused her to look over to determine whether she had offended him. He managed to keep a stony face for several moments before he rolled his eyes at her. “Politics aside, I wouldn’t mind another.” He took his glass and hers before she could offer an excuse to leave. He started the bottle she had brought, a lovely, rich red blend. They had complementary tastes in wine, a discovery that had hastened their friendship years ago. When he turned back, she was relaxing on his couch with her feet folded under her. She had released her curls and was shaking them out before she twisted them again and secured them back on her head.

“Thank you,” she said as she took back her glass and clinked it gently with his, before she settled in again. “There was something else I wanted to discuss with you.”

She seemed slightly nervous, and he had an ominous feeling she was about to share that she had met someone and was asking his blessing in a detestable fatherly role. He steeled himself.

“I’ve been speaking to Luna more lately.”

That was an angle he had not considered after his discovery of the contents of her bedside table drawer. It was hard to imagine her having a satisfying conversation with Luna Lovegood, but the young woman was lovely. A vision of them together in Granger’s quarters flooded his mind. He was still very sad, but at least he would have some decent wanking material, which he certainly would not if she went off with some git from Muggle uni. He took a long drink. “I didn’t know the two of you had become close…or that your proclivities…leaned that way, but…” he was blundering this badly, and she was looking at him as if she had no idea what he was on about.

“Luna Lovegood,” she clarified, as if there were another. “We’ve been friends since...” And then understanding filled her mien. Her eyes grew wide and then she let out a laugh. “No! I am not seeing Luna…we’re not a couple. Severus!” she reached over and swatted the side of his leg. “For Merlin’s sake…not that…” she was sputtering, trying to backtrack. “I have no problem with…oh, dear.” She took a fortifying drink. “I was not confessing a romance with Luna…for me.”

Now he was utterly confused and conveyed that as well as he could without words, as he was so flooded with relief he couldn’t speak.

“The _Quibbler_ has been so stellar since Sloot has arisen. It has exceeded expectations, you know?”

He did. They had discussed it often.

“I wrote to her last week to tell her how much we appreciated the work she has been doing. I haven’t had a chance to chat with her since that party at the Burrow, and I was not at my best that day, you may recall.”

He snorted, trying to play his part here.

“She wrote back, and she sounded a bit lonely. She had a boyfriend for a few years, but he wanted her to join him in South America and leave the paper behind, but she can’t do that. Her father can’t publish it on his own anymore.”

The _Quibbler_ had emerged post-war as a serious alternative to the _Prophet_. It still ran too many stories about dubious remedies and crackpot theories, but the political coverage was first-rate. He nodded, baffled as to where this was going.

“She mentioned you. She asked after you, and it made me think…the two of you…together…I think it could work.”

He controlled himself enough not to spit out his drink at the shock. This was a matchmaking venture? He looked at her incredulously.

“Don’t dismiss it out of hand. She is smart enough to keep up with you intellectually, and she is so kind, Snape, and I don’t have to tell you how beautiful she is.”

“Granger. I…”

She interrupted him. “You deserve someone as lovely as she is. You know I wanted you…for myself,” she looked down as if she were ashamed.  “I know you realise that, Severus. But since that’s not in the cards…”

“Hermione, stop.” He couldn’t bear to hear her continue. _What else would she think, you utter disgrace?_ “I…am not fit to…” He took a breath and tried to choose his words as carefully as possible. “I am not fit to have a partner. That bit of my life…” _As fleeting as it was_ … “That bit of my life is over.”

Understanding fell over her face. “If you were injured…if you can no longer…That is not the only reason that I am attracted to you,” she turned crimson, “Or the reason that Luna would be…”

He was both amused at her assumption and slightly offended. “I assure you there is no problem there.” Her relief was palpable, and his lack of problem manifested itself suddenly as his cock was now quite interested in the turn this conversation was taking.

She stammered to atone, and he put a hand up to stop her.

“Listen to me. While I do not have residual war injuries, I live with the consequences of choices I made during that time.” His cock lost interest immediately, as it should, he reassured himself. “I betrayed people. I betrayed someone. I should have told you this years ago,” he sighed.

He closed his eyes, loathe to have to relive this all. He flipped through his memories as one would do essays on parchment to determine where to begin. Charity had been a few years behind him in school. She was young enough that they hadn’t been acquaintances when they were both students, but old enough that she had moved on before he started teaching. She had been a Muggle-born Hufflepuff with a witchy aunt and uncle and had lived her whole life rather innocently and blissfully between the two worlds. She’d gone to America after school and had worked in the government there before returning to elderly parents who needed more help and an empty Muggle Studies post she was perfect for.

She was the only one on staff he had never had a history with, and it had somehow allowed himself to let his guard down enough for them to become drinking chums, then true friends, and eventually lovers. Before things got bad around the time of Potter and Quirrell, and yes, Granger, just before that, he had started thinking about perhaps making some kind of declaration to her. Maybe not marriage and children, but perhaps shared quarters and certainly summer travel, which they had hinted around about but never followed through.

He was sitting forward on the settee, with his forehead in his hand when Hermione interrupted his thoughts.

“Everything you did was to further the cause. You had no choice but to…”

“No. I could have done something here. She died in front of me, believing that I was on the other side.” Of all the horrors, it was the one that came back to him in his dreams most frequently. _I thought we were friends…_

“Which of course you weren’t…” He was jolted again by that misplaced righteous indignation.

“Hermione,” he said quietly. “Think of it for a moment. Think of what it must have been for her.”

There were tears in her eyes that were about to spill on to her cheeks. “Oh, Severus,” she said, with a hitch in her voice. She moved before he could stop her and pressed herself against his chest, her tears falling on to the front of his robe. She was grasping him fiercely on his right shoulder, and he couldn’t help himself from putting his arm around her. “You had to do it that way. You couldn’t give yourself away. Imagine school that year if you were not Headmaster. Ginny would have been killed…Neville…Luna…untold others. And you would not have been able to provide the information that…”

“All was overblown, Granger. I hardly provided anything.” He gently removed her from his body and felt acute, physical pain at the loss of contact.

His brushing her off angered her, he could see it flash in her eyes. “Bollocks. Have you read the official report?”

He hadn’t, but he could guess. “A fantasy of a romantic hero that should have died for the perfect ending.”

“You cannot be serious,” she spat at him. “You are…” She uttered a frustrated yell.

“Granger…”

“Nothing you did warrants denying yourself a chance at…And you deny _me_ a chance at happiness at a life, a real life, too!” She picked up her binder and shoved her feet into her trainers, grabbing her robe as she started stomping towards the door where she turned back to him. “I will see you at breakfast, and you better have an outline for our Dark Lord’s first speech!”

He was too stunned to reply.

 


	4. Chapter Four: January 2018

**Chapter Four**

**January 2018**

Burton Dupree, who looked like the offspring of Lucius Malfoy and Gilderoy Lockhart had sprung full-grown from their heads by mid-December. He had a complicated biography. He was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.

“Sorry, Snape.”

“It had to be.”

Dupree was a member of an old wizarding family, the last surviving member, of course, but he had spent most of his life in Switzerland. He had attended the elusive wizarding academy there; Hermione hoped news of the unrest would not prompt the Swiss administration to call their bluff, but she had a complete set of charmed academic records if they did.

She had come down to breakfast the morning after that night in his office. She had drunk entirely too much wine, and felt heart-sick at how the conversation had gone. He had acted as if nothing was amiss at the Head Table, though. He had slid over a parchment as soon as she sat.

“Your speech, Milady.”

It was perfect, hitting every note that would alarm anyone who had lived through the events of the most recent war. He became the voice of Dupree, his words anyway. She was the one who would actually read the speeches.

They had worked diligently on her glamour; Dupree was handsome in an unapproachable way. He had short, blond hair, greying at the temples. He had a Roman nose, comically large the first time they designed it, but now it gave him a commanding look. Hermione’s eyes had to remain, but his eye-sockets had more of a slant, giving him a squinty quality that made her amber eyes practically disappear. He had thin lips and high cheek bones. They had pondered making their new Dark Lord a woman, but she was terrified that this would draw more scrutiny, and cynically wondered if the forces to whom they were trying to appeal would be less drawn to a female.

They couldn’t do much about her height, so they decided he would never appear publically but give his speeches via social media platforms. She was spending every moment of free time at the Cambridge library trying to master them with some help from her friends from the summer.

“You’re such a luddite, Granger.”

_You have no idea._

They started with an editorial in Dupree’s voice that catalogued Sloot’s incompetence and detailed every idea from his campaign that he had failed to achieve or even begin. They owled it to the _Prophet_ and had a response within hours.

Hermione and Snape had created a space in the Dungeon with access to the floo network and a dummy location readout—Dupree’s home was near Deal on the Southeast Coast. Someone with middling charm acumen could figure out that it was fake, but she and Snape gambled that no one would bother. They set her glamour, and she put on Dupree’s robes and practiced his voice for most of an hour before she had the nerve to sit in the little space and pretend to be speaking to the editor of the _Prophet_ from Dupree’s library.

“It’s not that I disagree with your point of view, Mr. Dupree,” Marvin Blackpoint, the oily editor of the Prophet rumbled. “I sympathise, but politically, the time is not right for such an attack. He is barely hanging on as it is, and we fear he will fall before he is able to accomplish anything.’

Hermione felt a surge of joy in her chest and tried to push from her mind the celebratory drink she would share with her co-conspirator soon.

“I contacted you as a courtesy, Mr. Blackpoint. If you do not wish to publish my essay, I have many other options…”

“No, you misunderstand me, Mr. Dupree. While I cannot publish this on the _Prophet_ editorial page, I was thinking a full-page ad.”

“Shocking,” she said in her best Lucius Malfoy drawl.

It had cost them ten Galleons and had appeared on the second page of the Sunday morning edition. Hermione had been too nervous to eat and was watching the Headmistress as she read the ad. Minerva had never been able to maintain an indifferent façade and her expression went from shock to anger to outrage to suspicion to amusement. She folded the paper decisively with a chuckle. “I don’t suppose anyone wants to discuss this…turn of events. No, I would think not,” she said with a clear warning.

Filius was obviously with her, looking down the table with interest. Neville was baffled. Trelawney had no idea what she was talking about and was engrossed in the horoscopes anyway. Other expression ran from curious to indifferent. Hermione and Snape were giving their breakfasts their full attention. Only the new Muggle Studies professor seemed alarmed.

“But this could…this could bring down the school,” she said, rather breathlessly.

“Yes; I suppose it could bring down something. I suggest we say as little as possible. Reassure the students if one brings it up and teach your classes,” she commanded before snatching up her newspaper and leaving the table.

The next week, Dupree had interviews with reporters from the _Prophet_ , which was now compelled to cover the story, and with Luna, who was clearly on to them. This put her in an ethical dilemma that she solved in her own Luna way. She ran a factual article next to an allegorical piece detailing instances of ends justifying means, and also an editorial that called for Minister Sloot to resign, in which she countered Dupree’s arguments and called out Sloot’s incompetence. She sent Hermione a terse note via owl expressing hope that Hermione and Professor Snape knew what they were doing.

She invited Harry and Draco to dinner and cards (though that part was a ruse) in her quarters that Saturday night to continue phase two of the plan. Snape arrived in the early afternoon, and they prepared an intricately constructed boeuf bourguignon with a green salad, a baguette provided by the Hogwarts kitchen and a chocolate gateau Snape had baked that morning.

They had to prepare the components of the dish before adding them to the pot, so Hermione worked on the onions while Severus prepared the mushrooms. He was better in the kitchen than she was, but thanks to her independent summers, she was not terrible. His oil and vinegar salad dressing, whipped up in a jar with fresh herbs and a dollop of mustard was a work of art.

They put the finishing touch on the main course and left it to simmer. Her quarters already smelled like the restaurants she had visited with her parents during holidays in the French countryside. She opened a bottle of wine and poured him a glass, inviting him to sit in her reading chair while she dressed for dinner. Her longing for permanent companionship with him was reaching a place in her soul that was crushingly sad, but at least he was there. At least he was her dearest friend and most trusted confidant. It would have to do.

It was not that she had given up; she hadn’t. The day after their discussion in his chambers, she had begun a project that she was still working on. She had borrowed former Minister Shacklebolt’s copies of the post-war reports and was making a list of Snape’s contributions to the war in a narrative, whose thesis was _It could not have been won without you and you deserve nothing but a full life now._

She had reached reason number eighty-two: Harry’s occlumency lessons. It was lying in pages around her desk, and she tidied it into a neat stack and stowed it in a drawer in case he was in her bedroom before the night was over. Then she kicked the leg of the desk for being so delusional.

She channeled her inner Draco and spent a bit more time on her hair and makeup than she was usually inclined to do. She wore a claret-coloured jumper and black skirt and tights with her dressiest boots. She returned to the sitting room to have a calming glass of wine herself before their guests arrived.

Snape was reading a book she had purchased the week before, an analysis of the American election by a Canadian-American conservative writer who was as appalled with the outcome as his counterparts on the left were.

“I find his thesis not credible. I don’t think the subject is smart enough to pull it off,” she said.

“Enriching himself through the office? How intelligent must one be?”

“More so.” She sat with her wine, and he put the book aside. They sat in comfortable silence until they heard Draco in the corridor. Both snapped to attention. Snape opened another bottle of wine to breathe, and Hermione opened the door.

“Granger, Professor, isn’t this a domestic scene.”

“Draco,” Snape said witheringly.

“’Mione,” Harry said as they embraced, and he kissed her cheek. “It smells so good—as soon as we turned the corner really,” he indicated the hall outside the door.

“Yes, give up the game, Professors. What do you want with us? We could eat sandwiches and play Wittig,” Draco sneered, though not terribly menacingly.

“Must we have an ulterior motive to strengthen our culinary muscle?” Hermione asked innocently.

“Yes. Out with it,” Draco replied.

“Alright, alright. Let’s eat first,” she declared.

Hermione had a tiny table next to the kitchen. She had expanded it and set it with her mother’s linen table cloth. She didn’t bother with further decorative efforts—it was not as if she could compete with Draco anyway. The meal stood on its own, rivaling the Hogwarts’s elves in deliciousness. Hermione took a bite and caught Snape’s eye, sharing a moment of triumph before he looked away.

They chatted about common friends during dinner; earlier in the week, Susan had given birth to a baby girl named Mary Louise, to be called Mallie. Hermione and Harry had spent the night at the St. Mungo’s maternity waiting room with Ron, and aside from her parents, they had been the first to kiss the little, pink cheeks.

Gradually the dinner conversation drifted to the current government situation.

“How do you think your man is doing?” Hermione asked Draco, a bit too innocently.

“My man?” he scoffed. He was never…”

“Oh, I’m sorry. From the way you spoke before the changeover…”

“We _needed_ a change,” Draco said defensively.

“It certainly was that,” Snape replied dryly.

“That’s where your boy Shacklebolt brought us,” Draco sounded defiant. Snape snorted; Harry looked pained.

“Minister Shacklebolt was no one’s BOY,” Hermione played righteous indignation to the hilt. “Always looking for a shiny new toy—not just you, Draco.”

“This Dupree, though,” Harry said.

“Yes, funny about that. No one seems to know _this_ shiny new toy,” Draco said pointedly.

“But they like him?” Hermione asked as innocently as she could manage.

“Oh, yes, Granger. He is just the thing—take out Sloot and McGonagall in one strike. Awfully convenient.”

“We have wondered,” Harry said, “Something about his eyes…and speech patterns.”

“Absurd,” Snape said unconvincingly.

“But if he takes out Sloot, does it matter? I think the Headmistress will be fine,” Harry said.

“And here we have arrived,” Snape replied, rising from the table.

Hermione followed, clearing the table alongside him.

“So we’re finally to the point of this?” Draco said with a snicker.

“As if that dinner weren’t point enough,” Harry started stacking dishes on his side of the table.

“Calm yourself, Draco. We’re not discussing anything before tea and cake,” Hermione called from the sink.

Snape used his wand to light the kettle, and Hermione handed him the best knife to cut the cake. She brought down her grandmother’s dessert plates and then poured the tea. She had a pretty tray she hardly ever had a chance to use and started filling it with tea cups and cake plates. Snape carried it gingerly to the table.

“So, let’s say that Sloot—for whatever reason—resigns. Who is ready to lead?” Hermione began.

“No one,” Draco said, “which is exactly why…”

“Not no one,” Snape said. “Potter here.”

Harry’s eyes became huge. He had just put a bite of cake in his mouth and looked as if he would spit it out. He breathed and swallowed. “You are joking, Sir.”

“No,” Snape said with quiet authority.

“You’ve had too much wine, Professor.” Draco scoffed.

“No, we’ve been discussing it for months.” Hermione took over. “If Sloot resigns, Kingsley would probably take the reins in the interim, but there is one person who could lead us out of this mess. You’ve done it before,” she said, looking at Harry as if they were the only ones in the room.

“And he was nearly killed how many times?” Draco sounded outraged. Snape snorted, recognizing the irony. “Yes,” Draco turned on Snape, “And there are wizards far nastier than I.”

“Indeed,” Snape replied.

Hermione attempted to steer the conversation back. “You could do it, Harry. It wouldn’t be easy, of course, but you are the most respected wizard in Britain.”

“Before he took up with me,” Draco sneered.

He had reverted to his school days persona, and Hermione had the urge to punch him in the nose. “Bafflingly, that seems to have added to his appeal,” she said instead.

“Granger, you wound me,” Draco said over his teacup.

“I am not qualified.” Harry ignored the sidetrack.

“Of course you are. You are Head Auror, and you have always been a leader,” Snape said.

Harry looked at Snape incredulously. “You think I could be _Minister_ …as of… _now_?”

“Yes.”

Something in Draco noticeably shifted from dismissiveness to pride. “Of course you are qualified, Potter. But why would you want the job? It’s bloody awful.”

The palpable love between the spouses touched Hermione, making her gratified for Harry, but there was a pang of jealousy as well that she swallowed away. “There are times when people have to stand up,” she said to Draco. “You would be his most important support, but Harry,” she turned to him, “You would have other help. Snape and I would be there in an unofficial capacity. You know all the best people who have left in the last few months. Arthur Weasley would be the first to come back.”

“This is all pointless,” Draco was back to his default setting. “A Sloot resignation is the height of wishful thinking. The Dupree affair will surely blow over like all the rest.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione said. “But if it does happen…there can be no solution if no one is willing to stand up.”

Snape had refilled the tea, and they were left with the cold remnants. The evening had reached a natural end. Snape started the washing up as she saw the couple out.

“Granger, you are something,” Draco said, clearly not meaning it as praise.

“She always has been,” Harry retorted as he embraced her.

“I know you can do it,” she whispered in his ear, and he squeezed her tighter. They left down the corridor, and she returned to her quarters.

Snape made quick, magical work of the kitchen and was finishing as she walked back in.

“Left you half of the cake.” He had bundled the leftovers.

She quickly packaged some of the dinner for him to keep in his rooms and tried not to be too maudlin over how much easier and lovelier it would be for them to consolidate spaces.

“Well done tonight, Granger,” he said with his bundle under his arm. He paused as if he were going to say more and then proceeded to the door.

“Draco is probably right, but at least we planted a seed.” She touched the back of his shoulder and squeezing it gently just as he was crossing the threshold. He did not flinch.

“Good night, Granger,” he said, not turning around. “See you at breakfast.”

She took a hot shower and brought Severus to bed with her. She drifted off, marginally less sexually frustrated but with an ache she could not touch.

 

They intensified their trolling schedule over the next two weeks: more editorials, more interviews, and a new component, too. They made short video clips that were projected on the sides of buildings in wizarding London during the afternoon commute. The _Prophet_ was forced to cover all of it, which kept Dupree on the front page every day.

Hermione and Snape had made the trip into London to set the projection charms, but they did most of the work in his quarters. After filming, they would trudge up the hill far enough away from the grounds to post the video to a Facebook account she created.

This was all leading up to the final fifteen minute speech, in which Dupree would call for the closing of Hogwarts, the sacking of the Headmistress, and the resignation of Minister Sloot if he refused to act.

Public opinion had been utterly divergent so far. Some supported Dupree, but many expressed great concern over parallels that could not be ignored to a certain Dark Lord. Some thought it a hoax, some a gag. A popular theory was that Headmistress McGonagall had dreamed up the plot with the help of the portraits in her office. That one was a bit too close for Hermione’s peace of mind. She was looking forward to hanging up the Dupree robes for good.

What most did agree on was that Sloot had been completely ineffectual in his response, and that his art of pitting different sides of society against each other did not lead to good governing. There were already calls for his resignation, both from the left, who had hated him from the beginning, and the right, who felt he was damaging their cause.

Hermione was hopeful as she and Snape went through the charming ritual that transformed her into Dupree for what she hoped would be the last time. Snape had written the speech a week ago, and they had been fine-tuning it each night after dinner rounds. They had chosen to video and publish Thursday afternoon when neither had late classes.

She gave the speech forcefully, using her nervousness to heighten the drama. They watched the playback and made a few adjustments and then took it up the hill. For the first time, they had trouble establishing a signal, and Hermione stomped her foot like a toddler and then felt ridiculous when Snape walked a few paces east and found one easily. She was more than ready to put Muggle technology aside for the rest of the school year. She held her breath and hit _post_.

Then they returned to school as if nothing had happened. The video would not be broadcast there, and they assumed they would have to wait for the morning _Prophet_ for news and weeks for any effect.

At dinner, however, the Head Table was buzzing. Owls were dropping letters throughout the meal. Before pudding appeared, the Headmistress announced to the table that the Minister was scheduled to address the wizarding society via floo at eight-thirty that night, and that they should come to her office to watch the speech.

Snape’s left hand was resting on the table, and she brushed it with hers. He picked up his little finger and swung it over hers and then tapped it twice before he withdrew his hand.

He still smelled of outdoors and from their mission earlier, and his cheeks had more colour than usual. He had a tiny smile compared to the grin that had taken over the bottom half of her face. She had a few bites of rhubarb crumble before excusing herself to her chambers to ready herself for the impromptu faculty meeting in McGonagall’s office.

She had finished her other project a few nights before. She had found one-hundred and twenty-seven specific deeds of wartime heroism and risk for Severus T. Snape. She had added her own coda for one-hundred and twenty-eight, and she read it one last time before she readied it to pass on to him. She hated it now: it was cringe-worthy in its cutesiness, and it seemed trivial against the story of the day, but she had committed to it. The time had arrived for him to decide and for her to move her life along.

She snapped the binder shut and shrunk it, stowing it in the pocket of her trousers. She did some hair and makeup maintenance and set off for McGonagall’s office in time for the floo to flicker and Sloot to come into view. Snape had saved her a seat, and she landed beside him as the Minister began speaking.

“This was not how I intended to end my government…”

The room erupted in revelry. McGonagall hushed them and made them sit again. Hermione was now brazenly leaning into Snape, and he was not stopping her. They missed most of the speech because they could not stop looking at each other and laughing. Snape had a glorious laugh; she had not heard it enough over the years.

“I will now turn the floo over to former Minister Shacklebolt.” The animosity was impossible to miss, and it made the whole scene sweeter.

“Thank you…ah…Mr. Sloot.” Kingsley’s assured voice filled the room and acted as an immediate balm for months of fear and uncertainty. “I have agreed to act as interim Minister, but I hope to hand over power quickly to the person the Wizengamot, the society at large—I dare say—and I believe should become the next Minister of Magic…Harry Potter.”

Kingsley backed up from the frame and Harry and Draco came into view. McGonagall’s office was in pandemonium of joy, and this time, the Headmistress did nothing to stop it. They would read the full text of the speeches the following morning, but this night was for celebration.

Minerva was not stingy to that end. She poured very good scotch for all and called the elves to bring champagne. Hermione had a small glass of each, but he stuck with the hard stuff. Minerva refilled his glass and took a moment for a quiet aside.

“Do you think we will hear from Mr. Dupree again?”

“I suspect not,” he looked her in the eye.

She nodded and clinked his glass with hers.

At eleven o’clock, Hermione pulled out the binder from her pocket and pressed it into his chest. He brought up his hand to secure it while giving her a confused look.

“Good night, Snape,” she said in lieu of a proper explanation. “See you at breakfast.”


	5. Chapter Five: July 2018

**Chapter Five**

**July 2018**

 

Snape was in Northern Wisconsin, about thirty miles from Lake Superior at the top of a black locust tree. He was gathering spores and sap that he collected in small phials labeled with his wand and stored in a leather bag strapped across his chest. He used this bag specifically in the summer, and it evoked happy memories quite separate from the ones associated with the bag he used in the Forbidden Forest during the school year.

There was sand at the bottom of it from last year, and the smell of it brought him right back to afternoons at the Pacific Ocean. He had been happy, there was no doubt, but it was nothing compared to his current state.

She had foisted that document upon him the night Sloot resigned. He had placed the shrunken binder in his pocket, not thinking of it at the end of the revelry. Later, when he was preparing for bed, it was still there in the front of his trousers. He enlarged it and took it to bed with him, holding his wand at the ready to fill the pages with comments of rebuttal. He was not disappointed. The list was filled with so-called brave deeds that anyone in the position he was in would have chosen. _Declining to kill students—low standards, Granger_. When he was about a third of the way in, he skipped to the last page to see how many of these he would have to wade through. The last item occupied its own page.

 **128**. I am in love with you. I am old enough and experienced enough to know the difference between infatuation or close kinship or even comfortable companionship. What I feel for you is beyond this. I am completely, permanently besotted. You may feel quite differently. You may be attracted to me but not enough to make an effort for anything beyond what we have now. Please let me know, because in compiling this list using war reports and analysis, I realize that I deserve happiness as well, and if it is not to be with you, I need time to move beyond my dreams of that life and to begin another. Severus, we have both sacrificed enough.

Love Always,

 

Your Hermione

 

There had only been a handful of instances in his life in which he had acted purely on impulse, and almost all of them had been by his father’s fists. So the speed with which he jumped from bed and threw his robe over his nightshirt surprised him. He shoved his feet into his boots, leaving the laces lose, grabbed his wand, and was out the door, taking the stairs two at a time, and arriving at her door in moments.

He knocked as loudly as he could without rousing Professor Vector from her bed in the next chamber. He knocked again when there was no answer and finally heard movement behind the door. She opened it, eyes bleary, hair everywhere. He realized he had been reading the document for three hours or more, and that it was probably close to four A.M.

“Snape?” she looked baffled.

He swept in the door and attempted to take her into his arms, but instead of the smooth movement in his mind, it was all knees and elbows, and ears whacking against cheek bones.

“What are you doing?” She sounded appalled.

“I am trying, Witch…Would you please let me…” He looked at her. He was clasping her body to his so their lower halves were stuck together, and he never wanted to unstick them. Her mouth formed a perfectly round little o, and with one finger, he traced down her nose and stopped at her upper lip, silently compelling her to close her mouth. He smiled at her; he had never attempted to transmit love via a look, but he did just then. _Gods, I love you._ He put his mouth gently to hers and kissed her lips before withdrawing a fraction of an inch.

“Oh,” she said with shock. He kissed her again.

“Oh,” she said with happiness. He kissed her again.

“Oh,” she sighed, and then the tenor of the kiss changed quickly from affection to passion. She opened her mouth and licked his lips. He opened his and let her in. He had not kissed anyone in twenty years—he had kissed Charity for the last time a summer day he’d had no idea at the time he should savour. The rhythm returned to him immediately, and she began walking backwards towards the door of her bedchamber, pulling him with her without losing contact.

What little blood he had left in his brain rushed straight to his groin. As they entered her bedroom, he thought immediately of the item in her bedside drawer. He reluctantly disentangled their mouths.

“I am afraid I will not live up to…” He indicated the table, and she looked confused for a moment, and then burst out with a loud laugh, causing her to clamp her hand over her mouth.

“Oh, no!” she laughed. “No, please don’t worry…” and then she palmed his cock through his robe and nightshirt. She practically purred. “Nothing to worry about, Severus.”

At the sound of his name, he took charge, placing his hands under her arse, hoisting her up, securing her tightly with his arm around her back. She was trying to divest him of his clothing; his robe fell off backward and he was left in his old grey nightshirt, which she clearly had no idea what to make of.

“I’ll never wear it again if it puts you off,” he said while peeling a soft Chudley Canons jersey from her, leaving her in bright red cotton knickers. Her breasts were full, slightly more than a handful; he checked. They were perfect, heavy and soft with little, hard nipples pointing upwards. He wanted to devour them, but also wanted to rid her of the knickers immediately. Such decisions.

“Oh, no. I love it. It suits you.”

Not wanting to ponder what about his old, awful nightshirt suited him, he flung it off, leaving himself completely naked.

“Oh, Severus,” she gasped. “No, you have NOTHING to worry about.” With that she came loose from his grasp and sunk to her knees on the bed and took him fully into her mouth. He was well on his way to sensory overload when she started massaging his bollocks in her hand.

“Stop!” he cried.

She looked up, surprised and worried, and he cradled her face in his hands and brought it up to meet his.

“Granger…Hermione…it has been so many years…I must slow down or it will be over immediately, and at my age, the show might not be ready again for a while.”

She laughed that delightful giggle that he loved and put her arms around his neck. They were face to face, seated on the bed. He felt suddenly emotional. He’d had precious little experience of having exactly what he wanted. He kissed her mouth and smoothed her wild curls away from her face and kissed her again.

“I love you, Severus,” she whispered. “I have loved you for so long.”

“I love you, too.” He had to hide his face in her curls to say it.

“Make love to me,” she said.

He eased her down on the bed softly. Starting with her neck, he kissed down her body. She moaned when he took her breast into his mouth and put her hands through his hair. He stayed there until he had given both ample attention and then continued his journey, kissing her soft belly and then finally arriving at the red knickers.

He put his thumbs under the elastic at her hip bones. She raised up, and he removed them down her legs, keeping his eyes where her legs met: a small thatch of closely groomed brown pubic hair.

He spread her thighs and then dove in with his fingers and his mouth. He kissed her all over first; she was already wet for him. Amazing. He found her little clit and swirled his tongue around it. He felt her head pitch back. She was making very encouraging noises, groans…wails, really. He felt her start to shake, and she reached down and put her hands on either side of his head.

“I want to come with you inside me,” she said as he was crawling back up. “I am so close, your cock in me will set me off.”

He was relieved to hear it as he was certain he would not last long. She enveloped his hips with her legs, as if to formally invite him in. He knew she took contraceptive potion monthly; he brewed it for her. He braced himself with his hands on both sides of her and slid in, joyously and with ease. _It must be a sign._

His world became velvety heat. He thrust in and buried his face in the side of her neck. He pulled back and then went in again. He felt his bollocks begin to tighten, and he ground his pelvis into hers and then put his hand down where their bodies met to massage her clit with his fingers before he lost all control.

He pushed in again and felt her melt around him. She tightened her grip on his back and dug her nails in. She practically roared as she came, “Fuck, Severus, OH!”

It sent him immediately off, and his world went dark, save intense pleasure. He collapsed on her, and she brought him in even tighter.

Those had been the first moments of the new era of his life. He had not been alone since. It was glorious; she was glorious.

They quickly agreed to marry as soon as possible; there was no need to set off a scandal at school. They had been best friends long enough that there were few mysteries between them and no second thoughts. Kingsley did the honours at the Ministry. They waited two months until Easter break for a honeymoon in Southern Italy. They returned in time to attend Potter’s swearing in as Minister and the gala to celebrate it.

Draco was the most stylish Ministry spouse in history, and the ball reflected his tastes more than Potter’s, which seemed right. Snape and Hermione had been frequent guests at the Minister’s residence since Sloot’s resignation. Hermione could have given up her position at Hogwarts to be a full-time advisor to Potter, but she had declined. She professed the desire to live the life she had dreamed of, them living together at school, being married colleagues.

She had moved into his chambers; they were larger, and he had collected more over the years. They dismantled the Dupree corner and hung his robes at the back of a wardrobe where they would remain untouched again with any luck. They were just becoming adjust to their new life when the term ended, and they headed out for summer travel together.

 

He swung off the tree when he felt the disturbance in the air that indicated that someone was apparating in. Sure enough, she was bounding into the path that led from the thicker forest to the cabin they had rented for the summer.

She was wearing jeans and a University of Wisconsin Badgers V-neck t-shirt, red with a little brown creature scurrying across the chest. She had picked up one for the retired Pomona and also one for the Muggle Studies professor, who was the new Hufflepuff Head of House. Snape had opined that buying them for the entire ‘Puff seventh year class was not only a bit much but might engender jealousy within the other houses, but he was quite sure she had ignored him.

She spotted him, and her grin became wide. She was studying historical coups and other unusual government changeovers at the university in Madison. There was a small wizarding community in the city, so transportation was not a problem. She was designing a seventh year course quite with the times. They had chosen a summer location in proximity to an appropriate institution for her and a collection site for him.

The cabin abutted a large pond and came with a long dock and rowboat they used most evenings. They spent weekends loafing around the pond on the boat or on inflatable rafts. They apparated on weekend evenings to a city nearby for dinner and drinks. Hermione had befriended several university history professors that they sometimes met in town.

The best part of summer was knowing that they would return to their quarters at the end of August. The dungeon rooms had never been as cozy as they were now with her living there, too. It made summer all the more sweet—home was waiting for them at the end of it.

She held up a brown paper bag that contained cheeseburgers and chips from their favorite place in Madison. He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth.

“I had an owl from Harry today,” she said, still in his arms.

“Yes?” He was marginally interested though it didn’t compare with dinner with his wife on the porch.

“Repealing some of Sloot’s tax cuts have been dicey.”

They began to walk up the path to the cabin hand in hand.

“I’m sure.”

“The _Prophet_ is waxing nostalgic about the heady Sloot days.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything different.”

She sighed. “I feel slightly guilty about leaving him there…with that.”

“You do not.”

“I don’t. But perhaps guilty that I should?”

“Come here, Witch.”

She put down the bag with dinner on the table in the screened-in porch and fell into his lap as he pulled her down. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and with their cheeks touching, they watched a solitary loon fly just over the water of the pond.


End file.
